


A Lament to Dale and to Hope

by RangeroftheSouth



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Descriptions not for the feint of heart, Gen, Hope, War, comfort and friendship, dragon fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RangeroftheSouth/pseuds/RangeroftheSouth
Summary: Bilbo and the Company have decided to explore the ruins of the city of Dale. Bilbo for the first time in his life is exposed to the destruction of dragon fire and the sculptures of death it has created. He begins to understand the destructive force of Smaug, the waning pain of grief and the faint glimmer of hope brought in a song. Rated T for vivid descriptions.
Relationships: Friendship? - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Song of the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot is based off some footage that I found on YouTube and was not used in TDOS, it shows the Company exploring the ruins of Dale. This is based in the movie- verse. Rated T for vivid descriptions of remains.
> 
> This chapter has been slightly edited, but nothing major has changed.
> 
> And now for the formalities: I do not own any of J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson's work. All rights belong to them and this is purely a work of fanfiction.

The City of Dale was frozen in a moment. From afar it looked ghostly with the mist that clung to its walls and the breeze that echoed through the empty homes. And standing within the city itself sent shivers running up Bilbo Baggins's spine.

The street before them was littered with charred bodies, their faces still held their screams, their expressions of fear. Brittle wagons were left untouched, the goods they once held now turned to dust and sometimes with the body of its scorched owner beside it.

Bilbo did not understand how some of the dwarves had remained expressionless as they strolled through the market square. He had never experienced such death before and it set a stone sinking in his belly. He gazed upwards and regretted it as the sun shone upon the crumbling houses that towered overhead and illuminated the remains of men who had died in an instant.

He watched as the sun stretched out over the street and touched the charred body of a man who lay a top a young girl in the hopes of saving her. Bilbo moved carefully around them, not wanting to disturb the scene of death before him.

He tucked his trembling hands into his jacket sleeves and scrunched the hem between his fingers passing by Bifur who knelt beside the remains of a child and held her, he could only assume, burnt rag doll in his hand. The Dwarf grunted as he tried to stop his quivering lips and wiped at his eyes. A small whimper escaped his lips as he pushed the dolls hair out of its face, he felt a sharp pain enter his torso when he remembered seeing this doll on fire. He and Bofur had been here selling their toys and trinkets at a stall that had been burnt to ash during Smaug's first attack.

The entire company was quiet as they absorbed the scenes around them, the eerie silence of the abandoned city filled Bilbo's ears as he moved along. He wished he could erase the images that were thrown at him at every time he turned. He gazed upwards once again as the sun shone reached its peak and brought its welcomed joy to such a place of grief.

He continued to walk with Ori, the youngest who was entering this place for the first time. The young dwarf's eyes were watery and sorrowful, the lines on his forehead seemed to darken and his shoulders slumped down as he pulled at his woollen sleeves.

They rounded a corner in street and Ori immediately turned away and walked towards his brothers who stood at the lopsided carousel and pushed it gently causing it to turn with a haunting squeal.

Bilbo felt the hair all over his body stand on edge. He placed his hand over his mouth choking back a gasp when he saw the charred remains of a small family who had sought shelter between two buildings. He assumed it was the mother who held onto the child and covered their eyes and it was the father who stood protectively over them his face inches away from his wife's. A last look into her eyes, his and her fear and love. The last thing they ever saw.

He could almost hear the screams of fear that broke the air, the sound of the dragon's wings sweeping overhead, the gusting of the wind it created that knocked people off their feet and the crackling and waning of a city on fire.

He turned away from the scene with his imagination running lose and his chest pulling and his breath slowing. He didn't wipe the tears from his face, in this place sadness was welcome.

That was when he heard it, a low hum that echoed down the street, the voice was low and sorrowful. It was Thorin. He sang of grief, sadness and hope even in the aftermath of such tragedy.

The other dwarves took up the tune filling the streets with tight voices and a hope that this would never happen again, with the same fear they'd felt that day. With the same grief they had felt as they counted their losses and the same anger they still felt because of that dreaded beast.

Bilbo sat on a large stone and closed his eyes letting the cold kiss his nose and the sound of the Dwarvish lament touch his heart and fill his body. Though he could not understand Khuzdul, he felt and understood every word of the lament as it echoed throughout Dale. He finally had an understanding of what real destruction a dragon could do. The Took part of him begged him to stay and explore more of the city, but his heart would not allow him to.

The song had taught him that and had resonated in his head throughout that evening as the sun dipped below the horizon. He drew his blankets around him, closing his tired eyes and dreamt of Dale with the Dwarvish lament playing in the back of his mind.


	2. Acorn and Promises of New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I know I said this was a one-shot... I was wrong...
> 
> Anyway I had this idea for the acorn that Bilbo plants in Dale during the BOTFA and I know it's not cannon, (it is movie cannon though) but I really enjoyed that scene. Also there is mention of a particular ElvenKing's children, I may or may not have included my OC in this one shot.
> 
> The first scene of this chapter is from the extended version of all credit must go to Peter Jackson and his brilliant team for it!
> 
> "Hope" is the thing with feathers
> 
> That perches in the soul,
> 
> And sings the tune without the words,
> 
> And never stops at all."
> 
> \- Emily Dickinson

"No no no, come now, don't despair." Bilbo gave the Bardsmen a smile, small but full of hope. Panic, exhaustion and no small degree of determination seeped into his scratchy voice.

"What would you have us do?" his voice was thick with frustration and hopelessness. Bard saw no chance of winning this battle. He saw no hope, no ending where he may see better days once again. The City of Dale was overrun by orcs, trolls smashed and destroyed everything in their wake and death lurked at every turn. Watching and waiting to strike them down. Elves and men fell at the stroke of the orc blade, his army had no archers left and his swords men were few and far between most too old or weak to properly wield a blade.

"Do… do?" Bilbo chewed on his lip, pacing ever so slightly until he fidgeted about in his pocket where his answer seemed to lie. "Here! Here ... I'll show you…"

The Halfling got onto the ground, clearing away the bloodied snow with his hands. His tired fingers ripping away at the ground as he dug a shallow hole. He vaguely heard Bard calling him, he hardly felt the sticky blood that clung to the dirt or the fear that made his heart beat wildly in his chest.

Once he was done Bilbo pulled out a small acorn he had taken from Beorn's garden intending to plant it in his own in Baggend. He grimaced, that possibility was almost impossible to imagine now in the midst of the depths of the battle.

"What is that?" asked Bard, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"That's a promise." Firmly stated Bilbo Baggins as the battle raged on around them, "Beneath all that blood and dirt there is a chance of new life it may sound hopeless. It may sound foolish what else can you do when faced with death? What can anyone do?"

The Hobbit hastily pushed the thick, icy, blood stained dirt over the hole. "You go on living."

It was now one year since the day of the Battle. Dale was beginning to slowly flourish with every day. They had buried the dead both those who died from the dragon fire and from the battle. They had rebuilt the crumbling houses and repaved the cobblestone streets.

Music and laughter filled the city of Dale once more. The market place was bustling with traders today with Dwarves, Men and Elves alike. A peace had settled over the three races after somewhat reluctantly realising that they needed each other.

Bard, the new King of Dale, excused his way through the crowd. Today they were to celebrate their hard won victory against the forces of evil. The people were to arrive there at midday, but he decided to go early to clean out the patch of ground.

His garden tools rattled in the sack that was slung over his shoulder. He squinted at the sun which was slowly climbing its way over the horizon. It cast a shimmering light over the snow that had fallen thickly the night before. His heavy boots crunching the snow beneath, the crisp sound like music to his ears.

He rounded a corner, the noise from the Market Square died down considerably. Life in this small corner of the town had not yet begun. Several broken stairways led away from this secluded corner, it overlooked the blooming landscape below and led his eyes to the great doors of Erebor.

Bard marched over to the small sapling that had been planted by Bilbo Baggins in the hopelessness depths of the battle. And found that he was not the first to have reached the sapling.

There kneeling in the snow was an Elf. Thranduil ElvenKing to be precise.

Bard had known the Elven folk would be joining them, he just hadn't expected them to be so early and definitely not with closed eyes besides the tree.

The Elven King had heard him approach, but did not intend to end his prayer just yet. Bard heard his mumbling in the smooth Elven language and backed away into the shadows to allow Thranduil some privacy. He had no intention of being on the receiving end of the Kings ire, not after he had witnessed it first-hand several months ago after a rather pompous, snotty Dwarf had insulted the Kings' kin.

He watched him out the corner of his eye, the King's head was unadorned, his golden hair seemingly held out of his unusually serene face by its own force. Thranduil wore no clothing to indicate that he was king, save for his heavy looking black cloak that matched his plain black pants and deep blue tunic.

"Good morning your majesty." the King bowed his head towards Bard, his icy blue eyes rimmed red as he folded the sheets of parchment that had lain in the snow back in his coat pocket.

"Good morning to your Highness." Bard shook off his shock and smiled. "What brings you to Dale so early?"

Thranduil leaned back on his heels, "I came to speak with the sapling."

He would have laughed at the Elvenking had he not seen the grim expression and hollow eyes that followed him as he came to kneel on the opposite side of the sapling. "I believe that it has become a symbol of hope amongst our people."

"Indeed it has." Bard placed the sack onto the ground with a metallic clank! And pulled out the hand rake and began to clear away the snow from the thin trunk of the tree.

Thranduil seeing his actions joined in. He stripped his gloves off and began to clear the snow, the cold not posing the slightest hindrance to him.

The sapling shivered as the ElvenKing touched its trunk by mistake. Bard recoiled, eyeing it in suspicion and wonder.

"How on earth?"

Thranduil smirked, the tree had laughed at his touch. He wondered how such a small thing born out of blood and death had grown into a beautiful, strong rooted sapling. It reminded him of someone, of a boy who had so quickly grown into a man through the chaos and danger that they continually at home. His Legolas. His son.

"Us WoodElves speak to the trees. They are more than just towers of branch and leaf. They are living creatures and this one will sing for years to come." Thranduil searched for clippers in Bard's bag whilst the man processed the information with an expression of complete incomprehension. His mouth stuck in the shape of an "O."

Talking to the trees! Bard thought that Thranduil was joking until he saw the thin-lipped, eye piercing serious expression on his face. "How do they speak?"

"Give me your hand." ordered Thranduil in a dead-panned voice. Bard recoiled again, what did he want with his hand? The ElvenKing looked particularly dangerous holding a pair of small sheers in his hand.

"I said give me your hand. I'm not going to bite." Thranduil's voice came softer this time conveying his sincerity.

Bard stretched forth his dirt covered hand, unconsciously holding a breath. Thranduil placed it on the small trunk of the tree before placing his own thinner and dirtier hand over Bard's.

The King of Dale watched with awe as the Elvenking began to speak to the tree. His silver words falling like rain making the tree's branches stretch towards the elf's face and tickle his nose. This was not the Elvenking who he had fought alongside in battle, this was a carefree Thranduil that none of the history books had spoken about.

"And now listen." And Bard tried to but he heard nothing other than the rustling of its leaves. "Listen with your heart mellon -nin not with your head."

Bard closed his eyes breathing deeply to clear his cluttered mind. In the waking silence of his exhale was when he heard it.

A gentle whisper danced into his ears, it gurgled like a baby and spoke in hushed tones like a child telling a secret.

Hello there King. I may be small, but here I will stand as a symbol of freedom and hope in these lands. Rain nor snow will hurt me. Every leaf on me will be one who was lost. Bard's eyes began to water not only from the sheer amazement he felt, but because of what the tree was saying.

I shall hold them safe until the evil in this world is vanquished and shall bloom for nestled within my branches is the bearings of a new tomorrow. Here in this place is where hope and joy and remembrance lie My King. Lament no more for the fallen for they are at rest.

Then the gentle voice faded into rustling again. Bard sat back on his haunches, breathing shortly, cold tears fell freely onto the cleared ground. Dotting it like rain.

He had felt the trees' voice resonating throughout his body. It was an ancient force that had filled his heart and mind. He had been witness to the magic of elves and the power they had been blessed with. He understood it now. They were as old as the trees, but this little sapling was not weary like them. It was springing forth with a promise of new life and breath.

Thranduil let go of Bard's hand and sat cross-legged against the railing that stood behind the tree. Fingers of purple and pink light streaked the sky as the sun dared to peer above the horizon once again. The pair watched the new day come until the last of the stars became veiled by starlight.

"Now you understand its importance?" Thranduil broke the comfortable silence first. "The Halfling was not wrong. All we can do to honour their memory is to carry on."

Bard nodded solemnly, at first he had believed that the tree was for his people only. That it was their symbol of hope and that that was all it was. But now. Now he realised that the tree was a watcher of Dale. That it understood that it was important and that it new every name of every fallen man, elf and dwarf and chose to keep them with it. As a reminder.

He fished for something in his coat pocket, "Here. Tie it to the tree."

It was Thranduil's turn look surprised, eyeing the purple ribbons hanging limply from the King's hand suspiciously, "What?"

The ribbons had been for Tilda for today, she had insisted on wearing purple and Bard couldn't say no to her, especially not after the pleading, puppy-dog eyed look she'd given him. That was always the tie-breaker. So the day before he had gone down to the market to buy them for her himself, only now he would have to find a way to make it up to her, though he doubted she would make much of a fuss.

"Forgive me." Apologised Bard, realising his crassness. "Tie it to the tree as a promise."

"Of what?"

"That we will never let what happened here happen again. That we will live every day to honour all those who we lost and to never give up on hope in these lands. Here lies a chance of new life" The ex-bards man's voice quietened, repeating what Bilbo had told him all that time ago. "It may sound foolish, but what can we do when faced with such aguish and grief but go on living?"

A smile pulled at Bard's lips as he tied his ribbon to the highest branch of the sapling. The deep purple starkly contrasting the vibrant green of its leaves.

The ElvenKing considered his laden words, letting the pre-dawn silence fill him. His weary eyes flickered over the city remembering the carnage of the battle, the bodies of his Elves strewn across the stone mixed with those of Dwarves, Men and orc alike. Thranduil heard the cries of the wounded, the screams of the grieving and the gaping hole that this battle had not only left in his kingdom. But in himself too.

Tentatively he took a piece of ribbon from Bard's hand and tied it on the lowest branch of the sapling. "A promise." Thranduil held the ends of the simple, skew bow he had tied.

"Never again for the love of treasure," he whispered, thinking of his children, of the years he had spent closed off and secluded from them. He thought of the lives he had needlessly lost during that first wave of battle against the Dwarves, he remembered the names of the fallen who he had buried and of their families who now bore the pain he could not prevent. "Nor for rivalry, nor for bloodshed. Now live for hope, for faith, for all that we hold dear in this world and for those we love even those whom we have left behind."

With that Thranduil, just Thranduil, not the ElvenKing let his tears fall and his stoic façade melt away. For a moment they were not only two kings mourning over the loss of their people, but two beings, untitled and vulnerable. The shoulders upon which power rested were constantly weary.

"Thank you Thranduil." Came Bard's soft voice after their long ringing silence.

"Do not thank me my friend, thank the tree." a warm hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before moving away.

"Thranduil?" called out Bard, standing tall and proud against the snowy backdrop of the Lonely Mountain. Upon his brow rested nobility and upon his heart compassion.

The light footsteps stopped and a gentle swish of fabric told him the king had turned back towards him. Yes, Thranduil thought to himself not for the first time that year, he has the makings of a great king."

"Why were you here so early?"

"I told you mellon-nin. I came to speak with the tree." The Elvenking steadily walked away to where his Elk awaited him his footsteps barely leaving a mark upon the freshly fallen snow. "I will see you at the ceremony."

Little did Thranduil or Bard know that this would become an annual visit for the both of them until Bard passed out of this world and onto his next adventure. Thranduil returned every year after that in the hours before dawn, carrying a small strip of purple ribbon to tie to the lowest branch of the great oak tree. Or Hope Tree as the people of Dale called it, a symbol of endurance and of course of hope. Every year he recited the names of the fallen from the same stack of parchment he kept locked in the top draw of his desk. Every year speaking to the tree, singing to it about the hope that he kept within his heart, about the hope that would come with the falling of the darkness to the East. And of the life it held until he tied his last purple ribbon on the very tip of the branch before he left for the shores of Valinor forever.


	3. What We Hold Onto

It was many years later when Bilbo Baggins of the Shire set off on his next grand adventure to the East. He had successfully escaped his birthday party and had caused a satisfying amount of chaos to keep his blasted relatives at bay. And was on the rode with Balin and a few others that remained of the Company. Thankfully, when they visited this time around, they did not pile onto his polished floor as they once did all those years ago.

He had left BagEnd and all his possessions to his dear nephew Frodo, who he knew he would never see again until they perhaps had both perished. He was old now. His curly hair had greyed, his stomach had grown, his bones were beginning to tire, and the hard, unforgiving ground had done no favours for his creaking back. But the hobbit had been ready for one last grand adventure.

The Dwarves had accompanied him to Rivendell, to the House of Elrond, then over the Misty Mountains and into the forest of MirkWood. Where the WoodElves had made sure to meet them at the Elven-gates and safely guide them through, ensuring that none of them fell into the Enchanted River this time around.

Prince Legolas and he had spent many hours' together, composing songs and ballads, taking long walks through the safe, untouched part of the wood. The prince had been called off to duty soon after and Thranduil had accompanied the small travelling group into Dale. He had grown rather fond of the Halfling who stole the keys from "under his guard's noses," as he had put it long ago.

The pair gotten along fabulously, both content with the companionable silence and with speaking of their lads who they had left at home. The Elvenking had not been surprised to learn that Bilbo would return to Rivendell to live out the rest of his days. If his forest wasn't under attack and if the world was a safer place he too would have escaped to the peaceful valley. Though the shrunken, frail state that Bilbo was in caused his heart to sink. He knew that mortal life was fickle, he knew that all that lives must eventually end, but seeing the hobbit so aged sent shivers down his spine.

It was on a particularly sunny day that the ElvenKing and the Halfling found themselves standing under the enormous Oaktree that Bilbo had planted during the battle. It now stood taller than Thranduil, towering over the rooftops and scattering golden leaves onto the ground. King Brand had accompanied them to the leafy giant and had long since left them to attend to his duties.

Bilbo stood astounded, one hand resting on the tree, the other held to his mouth as he tried not to cry. And to not remember it all, to not see the personification of death when he had first entered Dale, nor the harrowing battle which had ensued shortly after that and with all his being tried not to think of Thorin, Fili and Kili. Friends whom he had watched die, one of which who he had sat with until his last breath. He could still feel the coldness enveloping Thorin's hand as he held it, the life which drained from his eyes in that tent upon the battle field.

Thranduil placed a comforting hand on Bilbo's shaking shoulder, bending down slightly to allow himself too. The hobbit's head rested upon his hip, cold tears soaking Thranduil's tunic.

"My apologies Thranduil."

"You need not apologise Bilbo." His friend bent down to get eye level with the old hobbit, wiping away the tears that fell with his calloused hands. "Your tears are not unwelcomed mellon, here under the hope tree is where we remember them. All of them."

Bilbo looked up into his softening blue eyes, an unusual look for the king indeed. "The hope tree? Is that what they call it?"

"Indeed Bilbo. The tree you planted became a symbol of hope for these lands"

Thranduil held out the piece of deep purple ribbon to Bilbo, "Here, tie it to the tree as a promise."

"A promise of what?" Bilbo echoed his words from years before.

"Of hope and of love and of faith."

"This is for Fili and Kili. And Thorin who died valiantly for the peace these lands are in. this is for the shire, for them to be safe, for it to remain the same and unnoticed by the eyes of evil. And for my dear lad Frodo," he paused searching for the right words, "here I give you hope, for a life full of love, joy and no small amount of adventures. May you always carry it with you in the darkest of times you would find yourself in and if not you, then those who share in on your adventure.

The Hobbit reached out and took the ribbon, scoping out the lowest branch and stepping onto the strong root of the tree so that he could reach it. He couldn't reach it and Thranduil had to tie it for him, but he did so reverently.

The hobbit stared at the rainbow of ribbons that hung from its boughs, each on a wish of hope and love. A promise of remembrance, a token of forgiveness.

Little did he or Thranduil know that those ribbons would fly fast and true as Dale was razed to the ground as the war of the ring raged across Middle Earth. That no matter how many uruk-hai tried to chop at it, no matter how many Easterlings tried to burn it, it stood true to the promise it had made to King Bard.

As the Men of Dale, Dwarves of Erebor and Elves of Lorien and Mirkwood cried out in victory at the end of their wars. Its branches danced in the wind with the ribbons flying high across the plains. Even as the remainder of the Fellowship cried victory under the banner of the white tree before the desert of Mordor, as hope swelled in their hearts when the wretched Nazgul fell from the sky. Even as hope collapsed into a dying heap of fire as Orodruin cast a mountain of ash and cloud into the sky. The tree held true to its course on the wind. As little Merry and Pippin screamed their grief and Legolas lowered his knives, mouth agape as Gimli cried out, when Aragorn thrusted his sword to the ground and Gandalf scrambled up the eagle Gwaihirs back and flew into the ashen sky.

And as Frodo and Sam lay on the sides of mount doom, dehydrated, injured and ready to meet their deaths, the single purple ribbon that Bilbo had tied ran true with the wind. All the hope that the tree could muster mingled with the hopes of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. And with what little Frodo Baggins carried in his heart and what Sam carried for them both.

Hope ran true.

()()()

And so, it came to pass that the tree stood strong throughout the fourth age, the ribbons of many more visitors covering every inch of its surface. King Elessers, his wife's, Legolas Greenleaf and his dwarf companion Gimil were among the few whose ribbons hung from its branches. Even a single, glowing white strip from the Lady Galadriel. And so it was that the tree should stand, for as long as the free peoples of middle earth clung to hope and joy so would the tree. Standing not quite in the middle, but somewhere in between all kingdoms, as a symbol carrying the hope of them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this story and who left kudos! I reallly enjoyed writing it, even though it took sooo long to finish. I actually forgot about this document and now seemed like a good time to post it. Especially under the circumstances that we find ourselves in. Keep holding onto hope. This too shall pass and we will come out stronger.
> 
> Stay Safe!


End file.
